


all but forgotten.

by katsukii



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Slow Burn, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsukii/pseuds/katsukii
Summary: Based on the prompt "my ex just invited me to their wedding and I need you to be my date so it doesn't look like I've spent the last few years failing to get over them," in which Emilynne's betrothed doesn't die - he marries another girl. Kuroshitsuji OC x canon, multichapter.
Relationships: Undertaker (Kuroshitsuji)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. [ prologue. silver-tongued lies. ]

_"It's not you. It's me."_

"W-what?"

A hushed sigh. Dreary slate eyes search her pallid face for any semblance of anger; _please_ , he silently begs her, _be angry._ Be so angry you don't know what to do with all your rage. Hurt me. Say you hate me. Let me go, and all of this will be over.

But she doesn't. She can't. He can practically see the gears turning in her head, round and round, spinning infinitely - working so hard, so fast, but unable to pin down any concrete thought. She's so smart - so, _so_ smart - but in this moment, he's utterly perplexed as to how blind and - and _stupid_ she is.

"I- I don't understand. Willis, what-" she starts, but she never gets the chance to finish. She is silenced by a curt wave of his hand, and in all honesty he isn't sure why she complies. Emilynne is always fighting back, never settling, continuing to push even when she doesn't know what she believes in anymore. But here and now, she yields, surrenders herself, and he's grateful for it. After all, he won't let himself be dragged into this - not again. He won't let her make him feel guilty for what he's doing. It isn't fair how she's always the victim. Always the one who gets hurt. Always the one who needs apologizing to.

Not this time. He won't give her the opportunity.

"Don't you get it, Emilynne? I don't love you anymore," he snaps, and it comes out more cruelly than intended - but maybe it's for the better, he thinks, as he watches her shrink away from him, petite body curling in on itself.

"Willis. You don't mean that," she whimpers. Her eyes are a churning sea of emotion, but no tears betray her sadness. Emilynne has never been one to cry. Willis knows this. When she would fall and scrape her knees chasing him through the garden, or jump over a thicket of roses and catch her shins on the thorns, or take a nasty tumble down the estate stairs and twist her ankle the wrong way, she would never cry. She'd merely furrow her brow and sniffle, cradling the offending injury in small, delicate hands. _Help_ , she would request, voice but a whisper. _Please_. That strength was something he once admired.

Now, he detests it.

"God, there you go again. Playing tough. You just can't let yourself cry, can you? What's _wrong_ with you? Are you even human? You didn't even cry when your grandmother passed. I did! Why didn't you? Huh?"

Her face hardens, lips pull into a taut line. "Do _not_ speak of her. You sully her name and mine with your silver-tongued lies."

Another hoarse laugh erupts from his lungs; Emilynne staggers back two more paces. He sees her hands shake at her sides, sees her knuckles flush white from the strength of her grip. "Lies? Just look at you. Even now, you won't cry. I'm telling you I'm in love with someone else, and you still won't cry."

She draws in a sharp breath. Hesitates.

"Who?"

The question is so quiet, it barely graces Willis' ears.

He shakes his head. Dark bangs fall into his eyes, obscuring Emilynne's pained expression from view. "I no longer have to answer to you. Good-bye, Emilynne. May we meet again in the next life."

"Willis. Wait- _Willis!"_ she pleads, but he has already turned on his heel, already shut out the sound of her desperate voice trying to pull him back to her. The knot in his stomach tightens, but he won't allow himself to explore why. _I love someone else,_ he whispers, reassuring. _I love Estella. I love Estella. Emilynne is nobody to me._

Steady feet carry him to the end of the estate drive, but something deep inside commands him to stop, to cast a thousand-yard stare over his shoulder and drink in the sight of a blank-faced Emilynne. His gut somersaults as the finality of the situation settles in - it's over now, all over. The pain, the joy, the memories. No more chasing each other through the estate corridors. No more sipping tea in the waning sunlight. No more surprise bouquets, midnight walks through the garden, snowball fights with the estate servants. Even now, Emilynne looks as she did when she was a child - brow furrowed, lips trembling. How annoying. He can hear her tiny voice in the back of his head. _Help. Please. Please?_

No more.

"Good-bye, Emilynne Charlotte."

She cannot hear him, but it's not a declaration meant for her. Still, something in her face changes - a shadow descends across her visage, and her eyes gloss over like a fogged up window. He sees her sink slowly to her knees, and then, all at once, she seems to melt into herself, shoulders slumping, head dropping. A collapsed pile of her own limbs. Willis has never seen her look so defeated, and despite the dizzying sensation that overwhelms him, it's a fitting image. Finally, after all this time, he's had the last word. The last stand.

He turns, fixes a smile onto his face. He will learn to live without her. He will learn to live with Estella.

One step, two. Steps into the unknown. Steps taken into a new future. He walks onward, unsure of what lies in store but confident that this is the best choice. It has to be. There's no turning back.

The wind kicks up to a roar and drowns out the sound of his thoughts, the sound of his heartbeat, the sound of her voice. It's empty, hollow. Frozen. He thinks for a moment that perhaps he should look back, but there's nothing left for him there, nothing he needs to hold onto anymore. He exhales. With his breath goes his worries.

Then, just like that, she's gone.


	2. [ i. old scars opened anew. ]

She's twenty-two when she receives the letter.

Her maid, Lottie, bumbles over from the estate doors. They swing closed slowly; Emilynne stretches her neck out to glimpse an ornate carriage pulling out of the drive. She isn't given time to ponder its passengers, as Lottie is bouncing on her heels, exclaiming excitedly that, Lady Emilynne, you've got a letter! She presses it gently into the offered palm of her young mistress, clearly inquisitive about its contents. Emilynne runs her gloved thumbs across the surface of the envelope, expecting to feel something. But there's nothing. It's simply a small, cream-colored envelope, stamped closed with magenta wax bearing the crest of a family she does not know.

Curious, she turns the envelope over. Her name is centered on the front in delicate, precise lettering, clearly done by the hand of a wealthy woman who was taught to write. Emilynne does not know many women like that, and her brow creases as she slides a finger under the lip of the envelope and pries it open. Lottie is inching closer to her, peering over her shoulder to sneak a glance at the letter's inside. Emilynne moves her arms so that Lottie can have an easier time seeing. The maid whispers a thank you and motions for Emilynne to unfold the letter.

When she does, she nearly faints.

Lithe fingers release the thick paper from their grasp; the letter falls from her hands and flutters slowly to the ground. Lottie wants to pick it up and read it for herself, but is compelled to look after her young mistress, so her eyes fly to Emilynne's face and quickly assess her horrified expression.

"Milady?" she asks, tentative. Emilynne's face has paled so much that she resembles a corpse, and Lottie deigns to press a hand to the noblewoman's forehead, feeling for any sign of fever. "Oh, my. You look like you've seen an apparition, milady. Are you feeling well?"

"Lottie," Emilynne breathes, bringing a hand to her chest. Beneath her fingertips, through her gloves, she can feel the beat, beat, beat of her heart, a quick and erratic rhythm. "The letter. Can you- can you fetch it for me? I fear I may topple over if I attempt to reach it."

Lottie nods, stoops down to pick the upside-down letter off the ground. Her chubby fingers curl around the edge, and she picks it up carefully, making sure not to bend it too much - it's fine paper, after all. Though curious, she refuses to turn it over and read the contents until Lady Emilynne instructs her to do so.

"You may read it, if you'd like. Aloud, please. I fear I'm hallucinating."

"Of course, milady. I'll read it." She flips the paper over, smooths out the creases before clearing her throat and beginning to relay the information aloud. _"'Miss Emilynne Charlotte Abrahms, you are cordially invited to the union of- of Mr. Willis Evan Frazier and Miss Estella Margaret Thompson.'_ _"_ Lottie stops reading for a moment, pulls a face. "Oh my. Ahem. _'The occasion will be held in the spring of 1889, on April the 27th. Ceremony to commence at 12:30 PM. Reception to follow.'"_

She drops her hands, clutching the letter tighter now than she had before, and glances to Emilynne. The young woman is staring blankly across the room, a faraway look in her eyes that places her leagues away from the estate. Lottie does not know whether to say anything or to keep quiet. She considers her options - Lady Emilynne never responds cruelly when she voices her opinions, unlike Madame Abrahms - but, then, this is a matter quite heavy, and Lady Emilynne is surely not processing it well. It has only been three years after Willis' unceremonious proclamation of newfound love, after all. The wound is certainly fresh enough.

"Can you believe it?" Emilynne says at last. Her head tilts to the side, lips draw upwards into a morbidly bemused grin. "Can you _believe_ it, Lottie? After all this time, he invites me to his _wedding?_ With _her?_ God above - and please, pardon my language - why would he do such a damned thing?"

Lottie hangs her head. Her eyes travel to the letter in her hand, scan the neat writing twice over. "I don't know, milady. It's unnecessarily cruel, even for him. It seems he intends to break your heart more than once."

Emilynne's chest heaves as she sighs. She brings a hand to her forehead, massages her temples. "Yes, he does. Why, though, I've no idea. We haven't exchanged a single word since... well. It doesn't matter now. Such things are old scars. Pity that he intends to tear them open."

"You're strong, milady."

"A strong lady doesn't a happy lady make. Clearly, I need consultation on this matter. And I know just who to speak to."

"You do, milady?"

Emilynne perks up, gently takes the letter from Lottie's clenched fists. "Absolutely."

\---------

When they sit down to tea, it's as if everything has carried on like usual. Biscuits on the right corner of the table, kettle to the left, sugar and honey placed in the center, and a bright red bouquet of roses next to her guest's saucer. All is in order. Prim and proper. A perfect setting for a heavy conversation.

Emilynne shifts uncomfortably in her chair, the letter resting hidden on her lap. Her guest calmly sips her tea, remarking on how flavorful the taste is and how ever did your maid manage to brew such a delicious cup? Emilynne describes that the tea is ordered by her mother, Madame Abrahms, who accepts only the highest quality leaves, and so it's no surprise, really, that the tea produced is so delectable; on top of that, Lottie is a very competent maid and does her job a bit too well, perhaps, so there was no possible way the tea could disappoint. She would continue regaling Lottie but suddenly finds herself quite parched, so she pauses to take a sip of her own cup, then clears her throat. Time to address the elephant in the room.

"Grelle?" she asks, inflection more timid than it was meant to be.

"What is it, darling?"

"I- I have a difficult question to ask you. And I need your help." She stares down at the letter in her hands, traces the looping letters with her finger.

"Oh my. Come now, dear, out with it. Whatever could it be? You know I'm always a woman of service."

Emilynne chuckles, nods her head. She cannot deny that Grelle is a helpful sort; she always likes to know how Emilynne is doing, what's going on in her life, and if there's any juicy gossip that needs spilling. In fact, Grelle was the first person Emilynne ran to after the fiasco with Willis three years back. She held her while she cried, stroked her hair and told her that she deserved better anyhow; she was far too sweet and pretty to be stuck with a bloke like Willis. That had made Emilynne smile, and re-instilled her confidence that Grelle was a woman to be trusted. Plus, it was the first time she had cried in years. That level of vulnerability around another was a deep indicator of her respect.

Even knowing this, she cannot help but feel nervous to show Grelle the letter. She can feel the redhead's curious eyes on her as she fidgets about, and with a huff she thrusts the parchment onto the table and promptly folds her arms across her chest.

"Look at this _rubbish!"_ she snaps as Grelle reaches for the letter. "It's- it's- well, let me know what you think of it, and I shall tell you my thoughts after."

They sit in silence for a bated breath as Grelle reads the letter. Emilynne follows her eyes as they move side to side, flicking over the contents of the invitation. She seems to be taking a while, and it occurs to Emilynne that she might be so shocked she has to read it twice or even thrice over. Yes, that's it. Certainly. After all, the same thing had happened with herself. After retrieving the letter from Lottie, Emilynne had marched straight to her quarters, where she confined herself and over analyzed every inch of the invitation.

A lump forms in her throat. She chokes it down.

"What a disastrous move! And so bold. I'd have to compliment him were it not for the fact that I hate him," Grelle says at last, slamming the letter not-so-delicately onto the table. The cups and saucers rattle in response.

"Truly, what kind of man invites his former betrothed to the wedding of himself and the woman he left her for? It's brutish!"

"Well, you know what you have to do, don't you?" Grelle asks, folding her hands underneath her chin and raising a single brow.

Emilynne's lips draw together into a vexed pout. "No?"

"You have to go, of course!"

"No! What? That's ridiculous, Grelle. How could I ever show my face there? It would be downright humiliating, and I'm certain I would have _quite_ a few unladylike things to say."

"Hear me out, darling." Grelle plucks a rose from the bouquet that sits next to her and twirls it idly about her fingers. "You show up to the wedding. First of all, there's no _way_ that man isn't still a little bit in love with you. Second of all, you bring a date, and stay wrapped around his arm the entire evening. It will make Willis jealous beyond compare - and that's not even the best part."

"What's... the best part?" Emilynne asks, somewhat afraid of her response. The lump in her throat returns.

"If all else fails... I can crash the wedding."

"Grelle. No."

"Grelle, yes. I know I've gotten in some trouble for it before, but a bit of light reaping and-"

"And Willis will never talk to me again because I'll have been an accomplice in the murder of his fiancee! Grelle, no. We are _not_ killing Estella."

Grelle pouts and bats her eyelashes, as if pleading, _pretty please, can't I get rid of her for you?_

"I know that look. The answer is still no."

A lofty sigh. Grelle replaces the rose in its vase and returns to sipping her tea, albeit with a look of disapproval on her face. "Suit yourself."

"Anyhow, we must think realistically about all this. How am I to get a- a date to the wedding? I don't know many... appropriate bachelors. There's the Duke; Mother loves him, but I can't stand him. And there's Earl Phantomhive, but he's so young, and his butler, but he's so- so _serious._ And the gardener, but he's too happy-go-lucky, and the chef, but he's too boisterous, and-"

"Emilynne. Slow down. I know just the man."

"Oh, no. I'm not entirely sure I trust your taste in men."

"Oh, he's not my type, dear. Bassy, on the other hand... Anyway! This is about you. This man... You two have chemistry."

 _"Have_ chemistry? Do I... know him?"

"Perhaps, darling. Now, I've got to be going! I have some business I need to attend to. Meet me in the city tomorrow morning and I'll get you two to talking about this date." Grelle giggles, then abruptly stands up, almost knocking her teacup off the table. Fortunately, it merely wobbles before righting itself in its saucer. Grelle grimaces; Emilynne breathes a sigh of relief.

"Well, then. Ciao, darling!"

"Grelle, wait-" But the redhead has already darted out the door, leaving nary a hint that she was ever there in the first place, save for the door swinging shut in her wake.

Emilynne closes her eyes, shakes her head. This is sure to be a travesty. While she loves Grelle, she does not love that look she had in her eyes. It was devious, like she had already concocted a plan. And if there's one thing Emilynne knows for certain, it's that Grelle's plan is going to be dangerous - for who, though, she's not sure.

She exhales slowly through her nose, distracts herself by setting to work cleaning up the fine china. _I know just the man._ Grelle's voice echoes in her head as she picks up the saucers, somewhat unwelcome. _You two have chemistry._

Chemistry. She dithers on the concept for a moment. Who? Who could fit such a difficult bill? Emilynne scarcely knows anyone who can match that description, except maybe Grelle herself. They're best friends, no doubt. But as for a date...

No one comes to mind. No one at all.

She sighs, and returns to work. No use worrying about it. She'll have to live with not knowing until tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow morning, her life will change.


End file.
